


Hearth

by easternCriminal



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avatar!Tim, Character Undeath, Desolation!Tim, Desolation/End!Tim, End!Tim, Gen, I do what I want, Sasha is alive somewhere, Tim Lives, archival assistants being pals, he didn't turn into an avatar so much as always was one without knowing it, that feeling when your boss dies and you have to deal with the fallout, tim and helen being pals, tim stoker lives, yes he is both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easternCriminal/pseuds/easternCriminal
Summary: Tim Stoker is dead. Long live Tim Stoker.orAfter the Unknowing, Tim comes back to life.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, I mean like - Relationship, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, all of them being pals
Comments: 23
Kudos: 91





	1. Reignite

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a continuation of Heat In The Skull but not directly related to it - some things are different. Mostly I wrote that one shot thinking I'd get that idea out of the system and instead I kept thinking about it and developing it further. IDK how much I'll continue this, kinda depends if ya'll like it. 
> 
> I just miss the og archive crew okay?

Martin’s mind is like static. A constant and overwhelming hum that seems to rise from somewhere inside of him - too many thoughts zipping back and forth through his mind and he never really processes them. Underlying it all is the small, subtle drone of the heart monitor as it continues to read out the flatline. His hand is curled around two of Jon’s small, bony fingers. They are cold and lifeless, so pale that the little scars that Martin was so used to seeing were almost indistinguishable from the pale, ashen skin. 

It’s the sound of the door behind him opening that shakes him out his unthinking thoughts. He turns around, and while his first instinct is to be embarrassed, instead he finds his hand tighten ever so slightly around the fingers. Basira doesn’t look like she’s slept, deep bags under her eyes and a dead stare. She seems more… angular, now. Like the explosion last night had blown off all her well polished chunks, leaving only cutting and sharp edges exposed. Her stare sent a shiver up Martin’s spine. 

“Me and Melanie were going to… to try and find the bodies. Again. Wanted to know if you wanted to come.” 

He hadn’t been to the site yet - right after the explosion Melanie had hurried to the old wax museum while Martin had headed straight to the hospital, where Jon had already arrived. Since then he had hardly left the room, save for taking care of a few things involving Elias and the police. The thought of seeing the rubble first hand made his stomach do a flip. He knew Basira didn’t really care if he came, other than as another set of eyes. But he should go. If there was a body to bury, he owed it to Tim and to Daisy. 

For not the first time he wondered if things would have gone differently, if he had chosen to go along. 

He didn’t respond, but he stood up and let go of Jon’s hand. Basira gave a nod, not much for words at the moment either it would seem. As they traversed the straight and grid like halls of the hospital Martin looked at his open hand. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he had been holding onto Jon’s hand so tightly that there were little marks from his fingernails. 

Melanie was waiting for them outside, leaning up against Daisy’s truck, arms folded close to her chest and seeming to jump and glare at every person who looked twice at her. The moment she saw both Basira and Martin headed her way she only nodded and got into the drivers side seat. 

Martin spent the drive staring out the window, his thumb tracing the faint imprints on his hand until they finally disappeared. 

The wreckage was… bad. Such a bland word, and as soon as it crossed Martin’s mind he couldn’t help but to berate himself, thinking of the eloquent statements and how Jon probably knew at least twelve different words that would be able to fully encapsulate the damage and the emotions behind it. Well… that part he felt like he could get away with. It was hard to summarize your emotions when you weren’t even sure of them. The buzz in his mind had returned, drowning out any room for true emotion.

“Shouldn’t there be police?” He asked, breaking the silence and sending a look towards Basira. “Or… uh… I don’t know, people investigating the place?” 

“Already been through here.” Basira replied tersely, eyes scanning the land before them. It was a lot of area to cover. At least there were the three of them. “Once it became obvious that the situation was a Section 31 and that pretty much everything going on had already been… taken care of, they pulled out. No use digging more into it. Let sleeping dogs lie.” She tugged at her hijab a little, face remaining mostly neutral save for the slight downward tug at the corner of her lip. 

“Right, well, I’ll start heading down the center. Basira, you can take the right side, and Martin can start on the left.” Melanie said decisively, giving herself a small nod before pushing forward and picking her way through the debris. 

Basira didn’t even glance over at Martin before heading into the wreckage herself, movements sure and single minded. 

They all knew they were looking for corpses. 

It occurred that Martin wasn’t even really sure how to go about searching the rubble. It was piled high above the ground, and he didn’t feel safe crawling inside of the little part so the building that were almost standing, seeming to invite him in with only the promise of collapsing on top of him and welcoming Martin to meet The End in its’ entirety. Or at least break a few of his bones. 

Martin pushed on through the rubble. 

“Hey! I, uh, I found something!” The sound of Melanie’s voice drifted over the wasteland of the former Wax Museum, breaking the monotony of Martin’s search. He immediately abandoned the large wooden beam he had been attempting to move and made his way across the broken pieces of flooring and walls, trying to go as fast as he could without endangering himself. There was far too much feat and steel and glass that had broken, pointing into the air at dangerous angles. 

By the time he arrived Basira had already made it to where Melanie stood. The pair of them were looking down into a large smoldering hole. Judging by the piled up junk near Melanie she had done quite a bit of moving the debris around in order to uncover the… the body that sat down in the middle. 

It was charred and blackened, and even from where Martin stood he could feel the heat the corpse gave off and the sick scent of meat that was already beginning to rot. 

“One of the fire nut jobs?” Basira said, looking at the body quizzically. 

“They look dead to me.” Melanie commented. 

“But what were they doing here? I feel like if they had also been moving in to stop the Unknowing we would’ve noticed.” 

Martin couldn’t move his eyes from the blacked face, the deep sunken areas of the eyes and the mouth opened in what seemed to be a scream, forever frozen in time. Something inside of him flickered. 

Before he was fully aware of his own intentions, Martin found himself making his way closer to the body. Even after only a few feet the heat was immense, and he noticed the way it had the air around the body shimmer, like the air above a fire. 

“What are you doing, Martin?” Melanie asked cautiously. 

“I just… I need to get a closer look.” He tried to explain. There was something familiar here, not in appearance or any tangible way. It was a gut thing. Sweat began to drip from Martin’s brow and he could feel his shirt cling to his skin in an uncomfortable and stucky manner. 

“Oh for goodness… get away from the corpse, Martin.” Basira shouted, followed by the sound of her making her own way down the pit. Martin studied the face, trying to pinpoint what was making this emotion stir in his chest. 

Before he could even turn to Basira and try to explain the strange emotion in his chest, the corpse moved. 

It was much faster than a crisp and brittle body had any right to be, as one of its hands shot out and grabbed Martin by the wrist, eliciting a gasp from him as he felt red hot pain grip him and something deep inside of him painfully tug, his vision turning briefly white and he was only distantly aware of two screams. His own and… and someone else’s. His eyes finally cleared up enough and through the agony he could see that the dead body was standing now, hand still tightly clutching Martin even as it was enveloped completely in flames. In horror Martin watched as the body crackled and sizzled until the pieces of the ruined flesh broke off entirely, getting caught up in the roar of the fire, ash rising into the air. Behind it left a molten form that Martin had to squint to get the shape of.

And then, slowly then all at once. The fire died. And the being of light faded, faded, faded. Steam let off as it cooled. 

Tan, pock marked skin. Straight dark hair. Thin and muscular arms. Martin recognized the being in front of him, seemingly unchanged. 

Until Tim opened his eyes, golden and red and shimmering.

Then Tim collapsed, and Martin supposed it was such a good idea that Martin did as well. 


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wakes up in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not in love with how this came out but I wanted to at least give it a shot.

It is always too warm. Tim tosses and turns in his sleep, taking off his covers, flipping over his pillow, trying to do anything that could possibly cool him down. All the attempts are in vain and his skin feels so hot he thinks multiple times that it might simply melt right off of his muscles, leaving the flesh underneath to simply sizzle and steam into the air. 

Ever since he died, it had been like that. Three days after being released from the hospital, he had woken in the middle of the night to find that he had burned his sheets to a crisp. These days he slept in the archives, in the old cot that Martin used to take up residence in, next to the extra fire extinguishers from the Prentiss incident. 

Ha. Ha. 

Oh the irony. 

He doesn’t  _ want  _ to be here. At first, when he had opened his eyes in the hospital to Martin sitting at his bedside, he had felt so much better. Blinking in the dim light of the room and feeling at peace for the first time in weeks… in months… it had felt like he was who he used to be again. That bright eyed man from a year ago with jokes and smiles. 

But then it had risen up. The Anger. And he had breathed so heavily and his hands had shaken and his lungs felt like they were on  _ fire.  _

So Timothy Stoker wasn’t back. That man’s dead body burned away by whatever monster he was now. 

The Archives were protected against the ability of the other entities. Even though it made his blood boil even further, to know that he was still trapped in this building, at least it meant he wasn’t putting the tenants of his apartment in danger, and rarely did he wake up to full on flames these days, mostly just the smoldering of the mothball eaten comforter. 

Tim gives up on sleep. 

The hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet and creaks as he puts his weight on it. His eyes scan the room and land on the old clock, squinting he manages to make out the hands pointed almost mockingly at 2:43. Too early. No one would be at the archives this early, and Tim wasn’t sure whether he wanted there to be people here or not. He always  _ felt _ like he wanted people around him, but whenever there were others his skin would crawl and burn and he’d usually lash out before self-quarantining himself back in his ‘room’ or going out into the bracing winter air. 

Didn’t help that there were only three people to be around. Martin had disappeared quite quickly after Tim had made it out of the hospital, and with each day it became rarer and rarer to see him. Melanie was full of almost as much rage as Tim felt, and when they talked it was like flint and steel hitting one another, threatening to start a fire. 

And Basira… Basira who stared at Tim with those eyes as if demanding to know how he had survived. How long had he been hiding his condition from them? How had a building collapsed and both of Martin’s friends made it out and yet Daisy remained a glaring absence? He couldn’t help but to hide from those eyes. 

But being alone… that wasn’t right either. 

His hand reached over and flicked on the light, listening to the faint buzz the old bulbs gave, and his heart clenched. With no people to fill it the room only echoed with the memories of the past. He used to think of this desk as a second home, and his hand traced over the worn varnish of the wood. Over there had been Martin’s desk, before Peter Lukas had taken him away. 

Peter Lukas… the name made something inside him flare up in indignation and fury. He had yet to see the man. For the best, probably. He wasn’t sure what he would do if they met face to face. Unlike Elias he didn’t have some bullshit ‘kill me and you kill everyone else’ promise hanging around him. 

Tim carefully kept his eyes away from Melanie’s desk. The desk that had once been S- Sa- 

...

He can’t even think the name. Can’t let himself think  _ her  _ name. It feels blasphemous, as if to try and reminisce of their times together and bask in her bittersweet memory would be to worship to a false god when he can’t even conjure her face. 

Tim retreated into Jon’s office, closing the door behind him, trying to hide from that desk. The office was the same as when he had last seen it - no one had even made an attempt to clean it while Jon was… dead. Not dead. Undead. However it was. Whatever it was he knew that it was wrong. Tim had only had the guts to see Jon in person once. 

It had been terrifying. 

The emotions that had welled up - his anger and hurt and betrayal from before the Unknowing mixed with his sorrow and pain. And then there was what he had ‘felt’. Something incorrect, that hurt him in his heart and his soul, and Tim had ended up running out of the room to throw up and couldn’t even fathom re-entering it again. 

It is dark, in the office. And Tim is once again reminded that he is alone. 

Tentatively, and slowly, Tim walked over to Jon’s old chair. The thick scent of old leather and books was familiar and comforting. He curled up there, long limbs and arms having to strategically fold up in order to fit, closed his eyes, and mourned.

oOo

Tim sits at his desk, almost mechanically, as the others filter in. Martin doesn’t work down in the archives, these days. Just Basira and Melanie. They send statements to be recorded up to Martin, but other than that they don’t interact much with the man. 

He’s aware that they’re in the building before they even hit the stairwell down to the archives, sending a shiver up his spine. Tim is relatively sure it has nothing to do with the Beholding, it is nothing like the way that Jon would sometimes just Know a thing. It’s more like… like feeling the butt end of a cigarette just a fraction of a centimeter away from the side of your arm. Or a sun ray hitting the side of your face. It isn’t a physical presence, but a sensation. 

The warmth of their presence increases in a light crescendo as they grow closer, and when Tim looks down he realizes with a flash of embarrassment and annoyance that his hands, resting lightly on the keys of his computer, have started to melt the keys. With a flash Tim flung his hands off the computer, blowing on in gently hoping to preserve the laptop. There was no way he could afford a new one. He was still tied to the Institute, and by extension to the crummy Institute salary. 

At the sound of the door knob lightly jiggling Tim sprang almost frantically away from the computer, attempting to look as casual as possible. He had never got along very well with Basira and Melanie, and didn’t intend on making it worse with the destruction of public property. Having to sleep in the archives was mortifying enough for all of them. 

“Oh- morning, Tim.” Melanie said, still surprised to see him in the archives. He hadn’t exactly been around much before the Unknowing. Basira cast him a  _ look _ and he felt a flash of fire underneath his skin flare up indignantly. She promptly turned her eyes away from him, not even deigning to say a hello. Maybe, months ago, he’d understand the pain she must be going through, the loss of a loved one and having to try and deal with such a traumatizing experience. Instead he just felt angry at it. 

“Morning.” He muttered to Melanie, lowering his eyes to scrutinize the partially melted keyboard, briefly touching one of the keys to see if it had hardened yet. 

“So- “ Basira looked to Melanie. “-what’s our agenda today?” 

The pair of them began to discuss what statements they would be working on following up for the day, but Tim had already zoned them out, cocking his head to the side as if listening. 

He could feel something, but it didn’t feel the same as Melanie or Basira. The heat it gave off was different, warped somehow, and barely even realizing he was doing it Tim stood up and walked back into his little room, following it. 

Basira’s eyes were on his back as he left.

Sitting innocently across from his bed was a bright yellow door that had not been there before. He wasn’t sure he had ever met the door entity, that he could recall, and felt apprehension seize him. Tim reached forward and then, almost violently, swung the door as if trying to catch whatever was on the other side unawares. 

It was apparently ineffective as the woman on the other side was leaning casually against the frame of the door, giving him an appraising but unimpressed look.

“Did your Archivist not teach you manners?” She rolled her eyes, a motion that seized up something in Tim and he had to reach to grab the door frame as if the ground was suddenly unsteady. The woman saw this and let out a small laugh.

“Why are you here?” Tim growled. 

“I wanted to meet you.” She said simply. “What a delicious little gem you are, and the Lightless flame doesn’t even know!” Her smile impossibly widened, curled at the ends. “Let’s have a chat, dear Hearth.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want me to write more, let me know!


	3. Lone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mart goes down to the archives. Tim muses.

Entering the archives is like walking into an oven. Outside has the chill of early winter and despite all attempts of the Institute, most offices still called for the use of sweaters and jackets in order to be comfortable. It didn’t help that Peter came around often, bringing with him the bitter chill of his mist and fog into the room. So the heat that Martin felt as he descended into the Archives surprised him, and he couldn’t stop himself from mentally comparing it to walking down to the pits of hell. 

He opened the door with a small amount of trepidation. Surely if one of the assistants had cracked and decided to light the archives on fire the suppression system would have turned on. ...right? 

The Archives opened and revealed themselves to be in one piece, and Martin let out the smallest breath. It quickly got caught in his throat when he realized he was not alone. He had to deliver the new set of statements and follow up instructions to the others and had hoped that going in during lunch time would mean that most of the others were out. 

Looks like he was only partially right with his assumption. 

Melanie and Basira were nowhere to be seen, although that just meant they might be in the break room. However, in the corner of the room, laying on his desk like a cat sunning itself, long limbs stretched out and head tilted back, eyes closed, was Tim Stoker. 

Martin held his breath. 

Out of everyone Tim was definitely the last one he had been hoping to see. He liked Melanie and Basira just fine, but it was easier to not talk to them. To be impersonal and terse. But Tim was something different - they had so much depth between them and he was used to turning to him for comfort and to help crowd out threatening loneliness. (At least, he had done that before, when Tim had been a much softer man with gentle eyes and kind words). 

Martin hesitantly took a step forward, eyeing the little boxes on each of the desks where ‘in’ files were supposed to go. It made him feel a little silly, but it was much like the games he used to play with himself at recess, where he was a spy on a secret mission. Or a Knight creeping through a cave to rescue the townsfolk. Careful quietness required in order not to wake the dragon. 

He only makes it a few steps into the room before he saw Tim’s eyes fly open, bright and gold-orange-red hued and he could swear that the heat in the room inched up just a few more degrees. Martin feels just a little trickle of sweat roll down his back and he freezes like a dear caught in the headlight. 

Tim takes a deep breath and jerks himself upright and hops off the desk, onto his feet and for a moment it’s almost like he’s glowing. And then it dims a little, and Tim yawns and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

“I’d apologize for sleeping on the job but I don’t actually care.” He says nonchalantly, voice only a little tense. 

“Sorry. I, uh, just needed to drop these off.” Martin fumbles with the words and fumbles with his feet as he approaches Melanie and Basira’s desk and fumbles with the papers as he tries to put them in the little bins. Upstairs, away, he feels so calm and collected and sometimes even manages to find that disconnection that Peter so badly wants him to attain (that he will attain, if it means protecting the others and preventing even more deaths). But down here it is all washed away and Tim’s gaze could burn a hole in his jumper. Finally, three manilla folders gripped tightly in his hands, Martin approaches Tim’s desk. 

“I don’t trust him.” Tim says finally, and it’s so sudden that Martin jumps a little and drops the files from his numb fingers right into the basket. 

“He isn’t so bad.” Martin says and Tim’s eyes narrow. What he really wants to say is ‘yeah, no shit’ but he doesn’t want to indicate that any part of his situation is involuntary. He would have thought that after literally exploding himself Tim would have learned a little self preservation and cooled off somewhat, but instead that anger roils and boils off of him. Knowing Tim, he’d probably do something stupid like try to take on Peter Lukas, and then Peter would Disappear him. 

Just the thought is sobering enough for Martin to try and wrap the chill of loneliness back around him. 

Tim’s eyes flash and he reaches out a hand to grab Martin’s arm. It lands perfectly on the hand print scar that Tim had left there when he had… when he had come back. He can’t help himself but to look back at Tim and see his eyes searching his face, eyebrows knit together in concern. It reminds Martin of the first time Jon had berated him for his job and Martin had turned to flee the scene, shame rising up. And Tim had been there. 

He desperately wants Tim to be here now. 

But Jon’s dead, and Tim’s died, and Sasha is gone, and Martin is so tired of being useless. He wrenches his hand away. 

“P-Peter says you need to start making progress on your work, or he’s going to have to issue you a formal warning.” He tries to make his words precise and clipped and doesn’t quite succeed. 

“Or what, he’ll fire me?” Tim has made that joke about thirty seven times since he started going on his little work rebellion a few months ago. It hits the conversation just and cold and dead as it has all the other times. 

“Just get something done.” Martin says and turns around to retreat up the stairs. He can feel Tim’s eyes on him the entire way, very different from the sensation of the Beholding. It is hot and burning and something inside of him flickers at it. 

Martin reaches the the top of the stairs and takes several deep breaths, allowing himself to recline against the wall and slowly sink to the ground. At some point the heat downstairs had become comfortable, and by contrast the top landing might as well be Siberia. Martin shivers and holds himself, feeling his eyes droop ever so slightly.

“Feeling a little tired, aren’t we?” Martin jerks back to full awareness with a sudden jolt, banging his head against the wall and seeing stars for a moment. He’s on his feet as quickly as he can manage, facing Peter Lukas who is thoughtfully looking Martin up and down. “Don’t like that boy much.” 

“He- he’s going to get work done. I promise-” Martin begins to try and cover for Tim but Peter just raises his hand. 

“I was just remarking that Timothy has a hold on you I didn’t realize before. Something deep. We’re going to have to work hard to snuff it out if you’re going to become what you need to be, Martin.” The words aren’t comforting, and Martin worries his lips. 

“You aren’t going to… get rid of him. Are you?” Peter lets out a small laugh, as if the idea is ridiculous. One of the researches has been gone for two weeks. Martin doesn’t see the joke in that. 

“Of course not, he’s important to you and is part of your reason for doing this. I understand that Martin. But it does complicate matters. I’m going to need you to try and avoid him, if you can. Maybe try delivering papers after everyone has gone home, or we could get you an assistant, and they could do it. Just try and keep your distance from him, he’s claimed you quite tightly.” Martin’s not sure he understands what Peter means, but nods along even as Peter gives a small wave and turns away, disappearing into mist. 

oOo

Tim’s conversation with Helen echoes in his mind the rest of the day, over and over again, twisting and warping over itself just like her hallways, her hair, her eyes. She had said he wasn’t human anymore - that, at least, Tim could believe. He was like her, a monster, and the real Tim Stoker had died and Tim had burned through that man’s flesh in order to be born. A butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. It made his stomach churn.

Most of it he didn’t fully understand - she had called him something… The Hearth, like the name was important and should mean something to Tim. But all other questions she deflected with that laugh of hers and her eyes seemed to swim in her head and Tim’s head had ached. She knew this was hard, she had said, this was something new for both of them. Used words like ‘who’ and ‘what’ until they held no meaning. Maybe that had been the point. When he had left the door had remained, and she remarked that he was behaving quite like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. But her eyes held almost… pity. ‘Knock, when you’re ready to talk, Hearth.’ 

Tim wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing. 

One thing he did know for sure was that the time spent among the strange hallways, however small, had left an impression on him. All morning he had felt tired and lethargic, a strange hunger that he was unfamiliar with eating away at him. 

Maybe it had just been a psychological thing, seeing Martin face to face had helped a surprising amount, even if the few short sentences could hardly even be called a proper talk. But it had woken him up enough to feel the rage that was always just under the surface and to direct it right at Peter Lukas. And he hated how he could just…  _ tell  _ that the lonely was hovering over him and sticking to Martin’s skin like water droplets on his skin. An odd sense of protectiveness had risen up as well, a sick feeling of  _ mine  _ that made Tim in retrospect clench his hands so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, anger redirecting back at himself as it so often did these days. He had no ownership of Martin, no right to feel that way. And yet he could feel the internal fire of Martin unlike he could feel in anyone else, like an extension of himself and that sensation of the isolation creeping in on it felt  _ wrong _ . So Tim had burned it away, as well as he could. Martin… he was the only person Tim had. He couldn’t lose him to the lonely, because then Tim would be the one lost to it as well. 

Tim was sick of being in the archives, so he took that back entrance and braced himself against the cold air. It hardly reached him, so hot was his temperature these days, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little disappointed. Another human thing he could no longer enjoy. With brisk steps he began to head on his way back to his apartment - Martin may have warned him to try and get to work on some of the projects, but the idea of being of any help to Elias or Peter, of willingly being a pawn to them… he’d rather see where Peter’s threats went. 

Deep in thought, Tim didn’t realize that he was alone in the alley until the song slowly rose up around him. It was… some kind of a string instrument, or maybe that was the sharp metallic lilt of a harmonica, words off and bitter. The knife was shoved up between his ribs before he could quite return his thoughts to the present, and all he could see was the whites of the eyes of the person in front of him, their face smeared with blood and dirt and unidentifiable viscera. Face in a sneer. 

They said something, but blood and fire was roaring in Tim’s ears and all he could catch were the words ‘Archive’, ‘fuck’, and ‘beholding.’ They withdrew the knife from between his ribs and Tim took a deep gasp as the blood seemed to be pulled out with it. The person reared back their arm for another blow. 

Three loud gunshots rang out through the alley, the holes and splattering of blood bursting through the person’s head, sneer not even moving as they fell to the ground. 

“Damn, here too?” He looked over with wide eyes to see Basira, gun already lowered at her side, walking over. Her foot prodded the dead body, but Tim’s eyes remained on her impassive face. 

“I-” The words were caught in Tim’s throat. 

“Which one was it?” Basira asked clinically. 

“I’m… I’m not sure?” Tim stammered, and it was clear Basira had no patience for his shell shock over the fact that a person had just stabbed him and them more or less had their head blown off. 

“Come on Stoker.” Basira snapped her finger sin front of her face. “Fear entity - who were they aligned with?” He swore he could hear his brain kicking back on, scanning the last few moments. 

“Song and - and the knife. That’s most likely, that’s the Slaughter.” Basira let out a small swear. 

“That makes five now.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Five entities that have tried to attack the archives. I thought they were ignoring you, but I guess not.” Nothing was said for a moment, and then there was the sound of something dripping onto the cold pavement. Tim looked down in surprise to see a small pool of blood below him. 

“I guess you do still bleed, Tim.” Basira hummed as she looked at the pool. Tim felt himself stagger, suddenly, and Basira swooped in to help support him. 

“Did you… did you ever ask?” 

“No, but I’ve wondered. Let’s go back to the institute before their friends arrive.” 

Maybe… maybe not so alone after all. 


	4. Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Archives with Melanie, Basira, and Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to make them all friends too fast but also I'm like.... I am only a weak person who loves found family.

“I told you to stop going out on your own.” Basira berated as she carefully rolled the gauze around Melanie’s leg. Melanie didn’t even look admonished, instead her eyes were scanning over a piece of paper in her hand, lips pursed in thought, only occasionally wincing. 

“I’m pretty sold on The Dark.” Melanie said finally, putting down the paper. Basira nodded. 

“You said a shadow reached out and grabbed your leg?” Tim asked, head resting on his hands, sitting backwards on his chair. He had to physically work to keep the anger out of his voice. It wasn’t directed at her, well, not entirely. Much like Basira he was angry that she continued to ignore their call for the buddy system when leaving the institute. Basira was the only one that could really ignore it, since she could handle herself pretty well. But Tim had yet to find out what his position as the Hearth meant besides warming up a room and Melanie, while skilled with a knife, had nowhere near Basira’s ability. 

But the fury that bubbled in him was mostly directed at the other Avatars and factions and their sudden perceived fascination with the archives. The past three weeks had Tim constantly looking over his shoulder, eyeing up the people around him whenever he ventured out of the Institute. Between Basira, Melanie, and Tim they had been clawed at, shot at, (exit, stage left, pursued by bugs), nearly fallen into a pit with no perceivable end, had the walls in an empty coffee shop begin to press in on them, found a strange and disturbingly moving clump of meat in an alley… the list went on. 

Basira finished wrapping the leg and went over the whiteboard, adding a mark to The Dark. Only the second one, surprisingly. Most of their attacks had been from The Slaughter and The Meat but that didn’t mean that the other entities were exactly slacking. Next to The Eye Tim had added about a billion little hash marks because let’s be honest, they all knew which entity was harassing them the most. 

Tim could see the ways that Basira’s shoulders seemed to tense all the more as he added the mark. He gave a sigh and went over to the storage closet, pulling the extra mattresses down from the metal frame and letting them hit the floor with two loud thumps. 

He caught Melanie looking up once and nodding slowly, one of her hands trailing over the stark white bandage. The focused intensity of Basira loosened ever so slightly at the sight of the mattresses, and Tim watched as she closed her eyes and took a head leveling breath. Tim took a moment and followed suit, and he could pretend that the coals in his chest cooled down, if just for a little bit. 

“A night in then?” Melanie asked, already brushing past Tim to the storage closet. They all seemed to feel a bit better when in one place, when they were in a position to see each other. Each of them lived alone, and none of them had wanted to repeat what had happened to Martin - attacked and harassed all alone with no one the wiser. 

Tim had offered Martin to stay with them multiple times, especially after a particularly rough scare, only to get turned down and given the literal cold shoulder. It was hard to find Martin these days, and Tim got the distinct impression that he was avoiding him on purpose which only made him all the angrier the feeling of  _ mine mine mine _ competing with Peter Lukas’ bitter chill that wrapped around Martin. 

“I get the one with the flowers this time.” Melanie declared, only slightly limping as she came out of the storage closet, a big, fluffy blue comforter held in her arms. It didn’t get cold enough down in the archives to really warrant such big blankets, but it was a comfort thing. 

“Which one do you want tonight, Basira?” Tim glanced over and a small frown crossed his face. She was already starting to pace around the room, eyes glancing at every corner, wary and protective. Melanie’s injury hadn’t even been that bad… His eyes caught on the bandage on Basira’s arm, just barely noticeable peeking out from her long sleeve shirt. Had that been there yesterday? 

“The purple one. With the yellow stars.” She said, voice firm, and Tim grabbed the blanket. He eyed Basira and her pacing and tensed muscles and sharp eyes and bit his lip. Right now, the only thing he wanted to do about the situation was chase down whatever had spooked her so bad and tear out it’s skull, letting it melt in his hands. But that wasn’t an option right now. He tried to remember what Timothy Stoker would have done - that boy in research, that early days archival assistant, who had given easy smiles with no sharp edges or fiery glint in his eyes. 

“I’ll be right back.” He finally said, giving Melanie a quick  _ look _ and quickly cutting his eyes away to Basira. She gave a subtle nod and turned her attention to their companion. 

“Remind me what that book is that you’ve been reading?” Melanie asked, striking up some conversation. Tim disappeared into the break room. 

He quickly began to rifle through the cabinets, pulling down pretty much anything that was drinkable. Mostly it was tea bags, but there were a few alcoholic beverages. A couple cans of beer, a few bottles of some kind of wine. A pause, as Tim’s hand hovered over a little bottle, tucked away deep in the corner of the cabinet. Some kind of hard lemonade with a sticky note on it. ‘No touching! This means you Tim! -Sasha’. Something inside of his gut twisted up. Tim left the bottle alone. 

They didn’t really have too many normal cups, so Tim went ahead and grabbed three mugs, looping a finger through all of their handles as he struggled to keep all of the drinks in his arms. 

It was only as he turned around that he noticed The Door That Should Not Be There. Tim bit his lip, and then with the smallest of sighs he walked over and did the best knock he could manage with his hands and arms so full, tapping the mugs against it. Today it was a pale yellow with winding pattern, a carved flower in the center. They had only talked a few times over the past couple of weeks. He had a hard time speaking to Helen, The Spiral, I Am A Lie… the way it makes his mind spin and spin and spin reminded him far too much of The Stranger and the Unknowing, and it made the heat in his belly rise up. Most things did these days. 

“And to what do I owe the honor?” Helen asked, the door creaking open. 

She looked… tired. Her hair falling just a little limp. The curl of her smile not quite there. Tim chose not to saying anything about it, if she wanted to talk, she would. 

“Planning an impromptu little slumber party.” Tim said, hefting up the mugs and booze. 

“Can you even get drunk?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Can you?” Tim countered. Helen puckered her lips and pushed them to the side, letting out a small squeak of sound s she contemplated. 

“You know, I haven’t tried.” 

“Haven’t reached my limit yet.” Tim said with a small shrug. “Figured might as well try and find it tonight.” Helend gave a small hum and then let a big bright smile spread across her face. 

“Grab yourself a mug, will you? I don’t have the hands for it.” Helen walked over to the cabinet and gave a small laugh before pulling out one from the very back. Some kind of amateur looking cup from a pottery class, warped and wobbly with the worst glaze job Tim had ever seen. It fit her just right. 

By the time he turned back around, the extra door was gone, and Tim casually re-entered the assistant room, Helen’s heels clicking behind him. Basira’s head jerked up, obviously hearing the foreign sound, and he saw her hand flinch in the direction of her boot - probably a hidden gun or knife - and he did his best to raise his hands in surrender without dropping anything. 

“If I get shot you’re not getting any of this.” Her lips twitched into an almost smile, and Tim felt his heart warm up ever so slightly. They were rare things, smiles from Basira. He took what he could get. But her eyes slid past him to Helen and she tensed up all over her again - shoulders going rigid and eyes becoming hard. 

“Who is that?” She asked calmly, fully aware that a stranger emerging from the breakroom of all places, where there was really only one entrance, meant nothing good. 

“A… she’s not dangerous.” He said, and then thought better of it. “She won’t actively hurt us.” He amended, it didn’t seem to do much to assuage Basira, and he could see the butterfly knife in Melanie’s hand. 

“What’s she with?” Melanie asked, glancing over at the white board. 

“The Spiral.” Tim replied, and he could see both Basira and Melanie instantly lock onto The Spiral’s appointed column - the only one of the fears that had no marks next to it. Hesitantly Basira tilted her head towards Helen. At some point Basira had kind of taken charge of their little ragamuffin group, and he knew that if she turned down Helen joining their impromptu little party Melanie would back her up, and in the name of uniformity Tim would have to accept her decision. Probably. If his temper didn’t get the better of him. 

“Come have a seat.”

Tim gestured for Helen to sit on his mattress - better to give Melanie and Basira a little bit of space, and it didn’t seem right to have her in a chair when everyone else was lounging on the floor. 

“Tim we need to teach you some damn manners.” Melanie said, leaning forward and lightly punching him in the arm. He tried to hide his wince - she was stronger than she looked. “Sorry about this guy, honestly a lost cause. What’s your name?” She asked, and though she was obviously trying to lighten the mood her other hand was still wrapped around her knife. Tim couldn’t find it in him to blame her. 

“I go mostly by Helen these days.” 

“I skip over the introduction cuz they’re boring.” Tim cut in.

“Then stop whining and get to the wine.” Basira retorted, raising a delicate eyebrow. Tim gave her a grin that was something fierce and tossed her a mug, which she deftly caught. 

“Welcome to The Archive, ladies and ladies, sleeziest bar this side of the Beholding.” He winked as he brandished the drinks that he had managed to find. “What’s your drink, mademoiselle?” An exaggerated, silly smolder directed at Melanie. She gave a laugh and rolled her eyes. 

“Would the bartender at a sleazy bar call someone mademoiselle?”

“Are you questioning my fictional bar, Basira? Do you want me to have you thrown out by my bouncer?” 

“What bouncer?” Helen asked.

“In my fictional bar you’re my bouncer.” Tim said, nodding at Helen. She gave a grin. 

“Well in my fiction I actually own this bar and I think we need a new bartender who isn’t so stuffy. Real sleazy bartenders inappropriately hit on the patrons and look the other way when someone sketchy puts something in their dates drink, and I just don’t think we’ve found that in you. I’m sorry, Tim, but I’m afraid we have to let you go.” Melanie let out a crackle in delight and reached over for one of the bottle. 

“I’ll be the new bartender.” 

“Nooooooo!” Tim let out a cry and grabbed the other end. “I wanted to play bartender.” 

“Stoker, drop the bottle, it’s literally already starting to boil in your hands.” Basira said, though her tone was soft and fond. “We’ll have to put that one in the freezer or something for a bit.”

“What we really need is someone who has the fear of freezing intrinsically tied to their being or whatever. Balance out the climate down here.” Helen said, waving a hand at her face as Tim handed the drinks over to Basira. 

“You get used to it.” Basira said as she opened one of the bottles. “Now, Mademoiselle, what’s your drink?” 

“I’m so thankful you asked, you are just a nice bartender, let me just say I love this establishment.” Melanie replied. 

“Wait - that’s exactly what I said! How come you guys aren’t roasting her?!” 


	5. Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets cornered by an entity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, projecting onto Tim????? More likely than you think.

Tim kicked a piece of ice a little ways ahead of him on the sidewalk, watching it skid and scatter on the cement before coming to a stop. Within a few steps he caught up to it, and reared back his foot, once again sending it forward. He let out a small huff, breath releasing and curling into the air like he was a chimney full of smoke. 

It was actively snowing and the wind had a sheer cold to it judging by how the people that Tim passed were huddled into their jackets, buried in their thick hoods. The chill hardly touched him despite the fact that he was only wearing a lightweight, short sleeve button up. One of his old ones, worn and nearly threadbare with green leaf designs on it. Sasha used to like this one. Or, he thought she did. Maybe only ‘Sasha’ had liked it. 

He tried to tear his thoughts away from Sasha and ‘Sasha’, feeling himself heat up all the more. Another yelling match with Melanie today, and Basira had come in and told him with cold eyes to go out and cool his head. It had been a fair assessment of the situation, considering when he started to walk away he noticed that the wood floor where he had been was blackened and charred. Already Tim could scarcely recall what he had been yelling about - something about paper clips and push pins. Definitely not something that was worth getting into a screaming match over. But holding himself back and swallowing his sharpened words every day was hard, and whenever the dam broke it always broke over the most inane of things. 

Well, nothing really warranted his shouts, and he knew that. And then he would just get angry that he was always angry, like a ouroboros of frustration and fury. 

Tim wrinkled his nose up at his own thoughts - dwelling on it just made things worse, and he knew that if he looked behind himself he’d see his footprints melting the icy sidewalk. The swirl of anger in him was rising up again, he could feel it choking out his lungs. By now he knew what was going to happen, could feel it coming on, and hurried down to the waters edge of the river, ducking under the nearby bridge and sitting down on the cold concrete, putting his head between his knees and trying to take some deep breaths. 

It didn’t work, and his body heated up more and more and more until he looked down and could see his skin slightly flickering, the air above his body shimmering the way it only does in intense heat. All around him the snow under the bridge had melted, and evaporated, and the fact that he couldn’t even seek solace in the cold of winter prodded him in his already volatile emotions. 

Tim was so tired of being angry. 

At first, he didn’t notice how quiet it had gotten, had been so used to barely being able to hear anything above the sound of blood rushing and pumping through his veins and in his ears. So Tim didn’t notice when he noise or the people bustling down the street stopped, not until he slowly lifted his head from between his knees, feeling almost better, to see that there was no one. The small tunnel under the bridge, down by the water, suddenly stretched on for miles and miles to either side of him, the only source of light being the pinpricks at the end of the tunnel. He had little doubt that, should he walk towards them, he would never reach them. But there was little other option, so Tim stood up, let out a loud sigh, and proceeded forward. 

He could hardly say he was surprised when the water gurgled and a large, fleshy appendage rose out from the depths and slapped wetly onto the concrete in front of him, shaking the ground slightly. Tim could feel a small sneer come across his face, eyes narrowing as the rest of the creature pulled itself out. Large and towering, a putrid smell of decay wafting off of it and a deep guttural growl. It had no skin, only bare flesh and blood and teeth that gnashed at the air. 

“You picked the  _ worst _ time to try this shit.” Tim said, feeling all that anger he had been trying so hard to swallow come back with a vengeance. The air around him shimmered in heat even as the creature lunged at him. 

He wasn’t sure how he knew what to do, but when Tim raised his arm, hand outstretched, he did it with a sense of sureness, and it felt right. Tim could see the heat of life of the monster, and in a violent motion he clenched his hand, feeling it wrap around the warmth of its many beating hearts and breathing lungs and pull back towards himself. 

The creature let out a deafening streak as it’s warmth and life was pulled from it, a lightless flame hovering in the air for just a moment before it wrapped around Tim’s arm, down to his chest, and plunged into his heart.

In a dizzying movement, the world around him returned back to normal, Tim standing over the body of… nothing. 

He was breathing hard, he realized, and a five foot radius of the snow round him had completely melted, and he could feel his clothing just barely starting to smoke. His hand, still in a fist in front of him, was shaking, and Tim slowly opened it to look as his palm. It was a cherry red, flushed and hot, but not quite burned. 

Tim felt his stomach twist and contort inside of himself in disgust as he realized he felt better than he had in weeks. 

oOo

Tim waffles outside of the door for what feels like hours. His hands are still hot and his face is flushed and it was taking everything in him to keep himself from lighting his own clothes on fire (something that hadn’t been an issue before). Finally, he took a deep breath, and knocked. 

It didn’t take long for it to open, and for Tim to see the familiar face of Helen, her hair with its tight curls moving around her head in impossible ways. He tried not to let his eye linger on any of her features for too long, the way that they would shift and twist under his eyes gave him headaches. The door had appeared next to a store front after he had walked as fast as he dared to without making a scene from under the bridge. And he knew what he needed. 

“Tim, what a surprise.” He couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not. 

“Helen, can I… can I step inside?” Tim’s voice wavered and cracked slightly, like the popping of wood in a fire. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” She asked, quirking an eyebrow. Tim’s hands shook. 

“I- I need to be somewhere else.” He replied weakly, and some of the playful glint in her eyes died down, and he seemed to really look at him for a moment. Tim had no doubt he looked as ruffled as he felt, and his own fear must be coming off of him in waves. Whether Helen took pity on how sorry he looked or thought he would make a good meal, he didn’t quite care right now. 

Helen stepped to the side. 

“I suppose you can come in for a moment, at least.” Helen replied, and before she even finished the sentence Tim hurried into the corridors, finding a wall and leaning against it, slowly letting himself fall to the ground. The yellow door closed with a certain finality, and it should have been a bad thing and made alarm bells ring if it meant he was trapped in this place, but Tim just breathed. 

Different than the archives, unfamiliar. Even better than the tunnels. The warp of the hallways, it was like the fire boiling, boiling, boiling in him could no longer find him. 

“Quite a spicy one, you are.” Helen said, and Tim looked over to see she had taken a seat on the floor next to him. Not quite touching, but close. He could feel the flush in his cheeks dying down, and for the first time in months his head leveled out, even if only a marginal amount. 

When he breathed in, it didn’t feel like inhaling ashes and glowing embers. The wall against his back was cool, and it was the first time he had really felt the sensation of something that wasn’t warm in what felt like forever. 

“Thank you, Helen.” Tim said finally. “Even if you eat me after this. I- I think I’ll be okay with that.” She let out a small scoff. 

“I don’t eat my friends.” I Am A Lie said to him, and despite himself Tim believed her. “What happened?” Tim fidgeted in his spot. 

“Maybe later.” He replied. “I’d rather not dwell on it right now.” There was slight hesitance before Helen finally nodded. “But I needed to get away from the Desolation, at least for a bit. I was afraid that I might… explode, or something. I’m so full of… of anger and fire and nothing sates it.” Here, in the Spiral, all that felt far away, and without the fire and anger it was like there was suddenly nothing inside of him. A teddy bear with too little stuffing, unable to even sit up properly. “Maybe you should just eat me, put me out of my misery.” 

Helen mulled over his tirade for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them. And part of Tim revelled in the cold melancholy that filled his chest instead of the usual anger. Not that the melancholy felt really any better, but it was different at least. 

“If I ate you, who would watch over Melanie and Basira? I doubt they want to lose another friend. Who will evaporate the mist clinging to your friend Martin? Who will be there when your friend Jon wakes up?” 

“I didn’t think you cared much for those things.” 

“I don’t. I didn’t. But a quite nice man with a bit of a temper keeps inviting me to ‘The sleaziest bar with side of the Beholding’ and care has grown on me much like a mold that is hard to get rid of.” She placed her hand on Tim’s, and he can hear the voice of Sasha - the real Sasha from the tapes - giving her own description of The Spiral’s hand. It is much like she said, like a bad of pointed rocks or bones. It is, despite himself, comforting. “We can’t change what we have become, Tim.” She stood up and pretending to dust herself off for a moment. “Take your time, collect yourself. But when you’re done moping, take any door out of here. You still have much work to do, Hearth.” 

Her heels clicked on the linoleum floor. 

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to fall in love with the idea of Helen and Tim being friends but it sure did happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope ya'll liked it! If you did leave a comment!!!
> 
> Have a great day and thanks for reading!


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